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Then she heard a murmur of protest in her soul,
the strong currents of life, with its seething
emotions, cried out for the happiness of living.
“But is there not something,” she burst
forth,—“something that can render life beautiful now that
you have taken from me God and my hope of
immortality?”
“Work,” replied the old man.
A feeling of pity and contempt for that poor
wisdom of his stole over her. Before her rose that
unfathomable something; she felt the spirit that dwells
in all things, and was sensible of the power that lies
bound within seemingly dead matter, but which can
develop into a thousand different forms of life. She
gropingly sought for a name for the presence of the
spirit of God in nature.
“Oh, Uncle Eberhard, what is work.?” she asked.
“Does it possess any virtue of its own? Name
something else.”
“I know of nothing else,” he said.
At last the name she had been seeking for came
to her—a name ofttimes sullied. “Uncle Eberhard,
why did you not mention Love?”
A smile quivered on his toothless mouth, where
the thousand wrinkles crossed.
“Here,” said the philosopher, his clenched hand
striking the bulky manuscript,—“here the gods are
slain, Eros among them. What is love but a longing
of the flesh? Why should it be regarded as
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